By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

  “I must dash; your uncle is expecting me,” Mrs. Leigh-Perrot told her niece as she moved swiftly to the door. But she had barely grasped the brass handle when Mr. Travers halted her progress. “If you will forgive me, madam, please approach the counter.”

  The middle-aged woman looked behind her.

  “No, madam, it was you I was addressing,” the shopkeeper said, motioning for Mrs. Leigh-Perrot to return to the counter. “My deepest apologies if I am incorrect,” the snooty Mr. Travers added, reaching for Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s reticule, “but I believe that one of your purchases was . . . not accounted for . . . in our ledger.” C.J. detected a slight twitch at the corner of the woman’s lower lip. “Would you please pass me your reticule,” Travers asked, leaving Jane’s aunt little choice in the matter. He opened the drawstring and found a small brown paper parcel that contained two yards of Mechlin lace and an additional, unwrapped ecru-colored yard that had been stuffed into an inner pocket of the lining. The milliner narrowed his eyes and looked at Mrs. Leigh-Perrot. “Bartholomew,” he called to his runner, “fetch the constable.” The small blond boy darted like a sprinter off the block and dashed out the door, leaving the bells above it jangling madly.

  “You will be so good as to wait here, madam,” the shopkeeper told Mrs. Leigh-Perrot.

  The older woman was deathly pale, all color drained from her complexion. No doubt the memories of her months of incarceration and her subsequent trial for shoplifting only the year before—and at which she was fully acquitted—came back to haunt her like a cemetery of spectres.

  “I am sure it is all a dreadful error,” Jane said, going over to comfort her aunt.

  “Ladies,” Travers said, addressing the Misses Welles and Austen, “please present your reticules at the counter.”

  The young women anxiously handed over their purses for inspection.

  “It is worse than I had thought!” the milliner exclaimed as his nimble boy reentered the shop with a huffing Constable Mawl in tow. He brandished a mother-of-pearl-backed tortoiseshell hair comb and two jeweled hatpins, which he had fished out of Miss Austen’s reticule. Both young ladies gasped. Had Mrs. Leigh-Perrot been surprised, she would have looked at the items with shock, and not turned away from them.

  Mr. Travers displayed the contraband before the constable.

  “Now, where did this one come from?” asked Mawl, pinching the length of lace between dirty thumb and forefinger as though it were a bit of disgusting cobweb.

  The milliner blanched when he saw the grimy thumbprint on his unpaid-for wares. “That would be from the madam’s purse,” he replied disdainfully. “And the hatpins and the comb were found in the reticule belonging to the young lady,” he indicated, pointing a pale finger at Jane, who stood trembling in the center of the floor at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

  Mawl pawed through the delicate items, muttering figures aloud. He dangled the yard of lace before the anxious face of Mrs. Leigh-Perrot. “How much does this bit of fluff go for, Mr. Travers?”

  “A threepenny bit to the yard, Constable,” replied the milliner. “Irish lace is tuppence to the yard, but the goods we get from France and Belgium, now that’s a horse of a different—”

  “I’m not concerned with horses and laces, Mr. Travers. I’m concerned with cost. Now, madam, as this bit here costs less than a shilling, you’re a lucky woman. More’n a shilling could get you fourteen years in Botany Bay, as you might remember, mum, from a little incident not much more’n a year ago. You won’t be transported to Australia for this offense, but you will have to appear at the next assizes, at which the magistrate will determine your fine. I am writing up a warrant,” he said, removing an official-looking leatherbound book from his coat pocket. “I warn you, though,” he added, poking a finger at Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s nose, “if you fail to appear, your luck will change considerably.”

  “Now you, missy,” he said, turning to address Jane, “I daresay you’d better be learning how to waltz Matilda to ‘The Bold Fusilier’ and consider that to be a stroke of good fortune. I have no need to ask the good Mr. Travers the sum total of these items, as I can safely assume that dainties like these,” he remarked, testing the sharpness of each hatpin, “cost a pretty penny.”

  “They were imported from France,” interjected the shopkeeper, “before the hostilities.” He peered over at his own merchandise, currently being sullied by Mawl’s large paw, to gain a better inspection. “Let’s see . . . the one with the cabochon is . . .” He made a number of quick, muttered calculations. “All told, twelve pounds six.”

  “What is yer name, miss?”

  “Jane. Jane Austen, sir,” a pallid Miss Austen replied, her voice trembling.

  “Miss Austen, the penalty for having stolen property this dear is death; but if yer lucky to know an influential barrister, you might get off with deportation to Australia and fourteen years hard labor there.”

  Jane reached out her hand to steady herself on the mahogany-trimmed glass display case. It looked as though she might faint dead away at any moment.

  “Of course, if your serjeant-at-law is a good-for-nothing, you’d never need to leave good English soil—that is, until yer feet left the ground!” He laughed raucously at his own joke, but his audience refused to appreciate the humor.

  C.J.’s experience with the present system of jurisprudence, which had left her with the distinct impression that it operated on the presumption of guilt rather than that of innocence, compelled her to speak up for Jane. Not only was Miss Austen innocent of blame, for she would not possibly resort to petty thievery, but if she were adjudged guilty, the Jane Austen that the world would come to consider one of the greatest chroniclers of her age would never be born. The Jane Austen who stood before C.J. would either have her life cut short by a hemp necklace or would be forever altered by a sentence of several years’ hard labor in an Australian penal colony. She remembered reading that Mrs. Leigh-Perrot was something of a kleptomaniac who escaped such a sentence by the grace of formidable legal representation, as well as a number of character witnesses. And in Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s case, her defense was aided by the disclosure that her accusers were notorious blackmailers. But what would happen to Jane if C.J. did not defend her?

  “Miss Austen did not place the items in question in her reticule,” C.J. announced. “That is my reticule in which Mr. Travers found the hatpins and the comb.”

  “Yours?” they all gasped.

  Mawl squinted his beady eyes and focused on the self-proclaimed culprit. “You! I recognize you, now.” He smacked the side of his head with his huge hand. “You’re the lightfingers what stole the—”

  Once C.J. realized where the constable was headed, she overlapped his speech, saying, “The ornaments in question are—”

  Then Miss Austen interrupted. She started to say “mine indeed,” and fished in C.J.’s reticule for the money to pay for them, giving Mr. Travers the impression that Miss Austen’s actual reticule was C.J.’s purse.

  But C.J. could not permit Jane to remain under any cloud of suspicion. “The items that you found in the reticule, Mr. Travers, are a most particular request from my invalid aunt, the Countess of Dalrymple. As she frequents your emporium with great regularity, I made the assumption—and now I fully comprehend the gravity of my error—that my esteemed aunt had her purchases placed on account at this establishment. I did not realize that you had failed to notate a debit for them in your ledger.”

  Mawl scrutinized the shopkeeper’s face. “Is that true?”

  “It is true that the countess maintains an account with Travers Millinery: Domestic and Imported,” the proprietor said, struggling to maintain his dignity.

  “And I shall pay for the lace,” Jane said, removing a coin from C.J.’s purse, “as I am quite sure that an oversight was made and that my aunt simply wished to separate the white lace from the cream.” Her voice then assumed a confidential tone. “She is past sixty years of age, you see, and her eyesight is not as g
ood as it once was where it comes to the discernment of subtle variations of color.” She offered the money to Mr. Travers and sneaked a stern glance at Mrs. Leigh-Perrot.

  The constable now deemed it meet to reassert his authority. “Then, sir, I put it to you: are you willing to accept this payment for the lace and the young lady’s request to put her items on account for Lady Dalrymple?”

  Afraid to lose further trade, the milliner nodded his head.

  Constable Mawl smiled with evident satisfaction. “Then I bid you all a good day.” He turned on his heels and strode out of the shop and down Milsom Street, whistling the tune C.J. recognized as “Waltzing Matilda.”

  Three relieved women departed the milliner’s and Mrs. Leigh-Perrot rushed home to the safety of the Paragon.

  Jane took both of C.J.’s hands and held them while she studied her friend’s face. “You would have done as much for anyone else, I’m certain,” she said quietly.

  “No,” replied C.J. softly, “I daresay I wouldn’t.” She gave her friend’s hands a gentle squeeze and caught Miss Austen’s unspoken expression of gratitude.

  Suddenly, C.J. was overtaken by a violent wave of nausea.

  “Miss Welles!” An alarmed Miss Austen steadied her friend’s arm, and with nowhere else in the immediate vicinity to rest, escorted C.J. back to the milliner’s and led her to a seat just inside the door. She asked Mr. Travers to fetch a glass of water, which C.J. sipped slowly, feeling quite flushed and more than a little dizzy.

  Minutes later she excused herself from Miss Austen’s tender ministrations and bolted from the shop in search of a bush behind which she might discreetly purge herself of the beverage.

  Jane stood by her companion, a cool hand to the girl’s forehead, holding back her ringlets, while C.J. retched uncontrollably, embarrassed to the core. Another bout of nausea sent her to her knees. “Help me,” she whimpered. “I must go home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Our heroine finally takes the waters; and Lady Dalrymple strikes a bargain with an uninvited, and not entirely welcome, guest.

  AS THE DAYS PASSED, C.J. continued to assuage her recurring attacks of nausea by nibbling bits of candied ginger. She recalled having wondered when she first arrived at Lady Wickham’s town house how she would find out what to do when she got her period, not knowing the protocol for such things. But only once had she needed to avail herself of the rags that Mary kept in a drawstring bag, tucked away in a cupboard. She had arrived in Bath on the fifth of April 1801; Constable Mawl would never let her forget that day. It was now June. C.J. counted on her fingers, calculating the time. Perhaps her condition was related to anxiety. She had plenty of that to spare. On the other hand, she had never been pregnant and didn’t know exactly what to expect if she were. Mary, who had no inkling of C.J.’s secret, was certain that her condition was intestinal and could be alleviated if she joined Lady Dalrymple in taking the waters. A lengthy soak in the hot Kings Bath, followed by a quick plunge into the cold Queens Bath, should nicely do the trick, she was sure. And so thrice a week C.J. donned the ugly brown linen shift specially provided by the attendants and took the cure. Each time she went, she held out a hope of seeing Darlington there, but he had never given C.J. any indication of requiring the waters’ restorative properties. How she wished to tell him why she believed she needed to take them! How she yearned to see him! She did see many other couples besporting themselves with no heed paid to a ready audience of gawkers. What a horrid location for an assignation! The baths themselves, which resembled modern swimming pools of modest size, were nothing but public germ tanks where invalids of both genders mingled, regardless of infirmity. People with running sores and infections shared the same water as those with common colds, fevers, or contagious diseases such as consumption. C.J. wondered if the water was ever changed or filtered. The stench would have been palpable had not the attendants attempted to ameliorate it by floating pomanders of lavender and copper bowls filled with scented oils. The countess believed that her “niece” had taken to accompanying her of late simply to monitor her progressive return to good health. She was given no reason to suspect that anything was amiss with the girl’s own well-being, and C.J. did nothing to disabuse Lady Dalrymple of that notion.

  MEANWHILE, IT APPEARED that Cassandra Jane Welles had benefactors in the unlikeliest places. It had been the brainchild of Bath resident John Palmer (the elder) to build a new theatre in Orchard Street to replace the old playhouse that had been erected nearby at the time of Beau Nash’s arrival some years earlier. The original theatre, built in 1705, was razed in 1737 (due to poor attendance) to make way for the Mineral Hospital. But Palmer felt that if a new playhouse were to be constructed, residents and visitors alike would throng to see the works of the Irishmen Richard Brinsley Sheridan and Oliver Goldsmith, his fellow Bath neighbors. Palmer was proven correct. His new theatre continued to increase in popularity, not merely with audiences, but among the actors themselves, who became eager to secure an engagement in the spa city that was now one of the most glittering jewels in the Georgian crown. In 1768, His Majesty granted the Orchard Street Theatre a license, and John Palmer’s playhouse was henceforth to be known as the Theatre Royal, Bath—such prestige having been previously conferred only on London’s fabled Drury Lane.

  By the time Sarah Siddons made her debut there in 1778 in Sir John Vanbrugh’s comedy The Provok’d Husband, the Theatre Royal was already a raging success. It goes without saying that had C.J. Welles known of John Palmer, she would have freely acknowledged him a debt of gratitude for the creation of a most remarkable time-travel conveyance.

  At the present moment, another, quite different, conveyance was pulling up alongside the façade of Leake’s bookseller’s emporium, adjacent to the post office. This one was the not-quite-literal “progeny” of brewer and theatrical manager John Palmer (the younger), who had taken it upon himself to address the issue of postal reform; his efforts resulted in the residents of the golden city of Bath receiving their letters and parcels from London a full day earlier than ever before. This pilgrimage, made by parcels and up to four passengers, took all of a fleet thirteen hours, necessitating a pair of horses, changed every six or eight miles. Each stop was made with equal alacrity, as the mailbags were ready for the driver upon his arrival; and the guard, who rode with the coachman on the box, would deposit the mail sacks from each destination in the boot of the carriage, permitting the driver to retain his position. Thus the journey could be effected with all due speed.

  Stepping from the light coach emblazoned with His Majesty’s crest was a ruddy-faced gentleman dressed in a quaintly grand manner: his elaborate white jabot foaming like a frothy meringue over his bright green coat and striped silk waistcoat. Puffing and winded from the mere exertion of descending from the Royal Mail, the person in question gave every indication of having once been handsome of face and figure, in possession at one time of a full head of wheat-blond hair—now tending to thinness—while his physique, once trim, had become rather thick waisted and stout. No doubt he had come to take the waters for his gouty left foot.

  “Give a hand there! Caution, lad!” he boomed at one of the young scamps who made a penny or two by helping Royal Mail travelers with their baggage. The boy handed the wheezing wayfarer his valise, a weather-beaten brown leather affair that looked to the child as though it had seen as much abuse as its red-faced owner, who, he noted on receiving only a shilling’s tip, smelled of gin, tobacco, and garlic.

  “Very nice. Very, verrah nice,” the man slurred, and one might have thought he was admiring the magnificent Gothic architecture of Bath Abbey, had it not been for the passing dairy maid whose buttresses were nearly as prominently displayed. The Marquess of Manwaring extended his hand toward the healthy young woman to sample her wares, but the girl was too quick for the besotted old sot.

  “Just what do you think yer about, sirrah?” she demanded indignantly. “Manhandling a poor girl right out in the middle of the street!” />
  “Not manhandling, young lady. Manwaring. I’m a marquess,” the would-be violator belched.

  “I don’t care if yer the bloody Prince of Wales!” the dairymaid exclaimed. “Yer a gouty old pervert, that’s what you are. I’ll thank ye to keep yer hands to yerself.”

  The marquess felt a meaty hand clamp down upon his shoulder. “That’s my good coat,” he protested. “And I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!”

  “You are addressing a constable, sirrah.” Constable Mawl drew himself up to his full height of well over six feet. He loved playing to a crowd.

  “Do you not know whom you address, Constable Mawl?” the gouty-footed man thundered theatrically. “I am the Marquess of Manwaring.”

  “You’re also drunk and disorderly, your lordship,” asserted Mawl, taken down a peg by the realization that the marquess might have an influential friend or two who could easily put in an ill word, triggering the loss of his constabulary quicker than he could down a pint of ale on a hot summer afternoon.

  “I am an actor!” the portly man proclaimed.

  “And not a bad one,” murmured one of the Royal Mail passengers to one of the impromptu assemblage who had gathered to witness the show. “I saw him play Bob Acres in Newcastle. He’s no Garrick, mind you, but he did Sheridan proud.”